


Devil's Foot

by wolfy_writing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfy_writing/pseuds/wolfy_writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Adaptation of The Adventure of the Devil's Foot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Where the hell is Lestrade?” Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace. “He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

“Are you okay?” John looked up from his book. “You’re swaying.”

“I’m fine. A bit tired.”

“And hungry, I imagine. How many days has it been since you last ate?"

“I’ll eat after the case.” Sherlock waved his hand. “I only need to meet with Lestrade. The case is effectively finished, so I won’t have anything better to do.”

“This is the one with the murder that wasn’t a murder, right?”

“Yes. The brother had a greatly exaggerated idea of his own intelligence. If you faked your own death, you’d at least have the sense to leave the country, wouldn’t you?”

“Can’t say I’ve thought about it.” John went back to reading and tried to ignore the sound of Sherlock pacing.

There was a loud thump as Sherlock hit the floor.

\---

Lestrade found John Watson crouched over an unconscious Sherlock Holmes, taking his pulse.

“He’s breathing, and his heart rate is steady enough. Hand me a cushion, will you? I should get his legs up. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

“What happened?” Lestrade handed the cushions to John. “Was he attacked? Poisoned?”

“No, just stupid. He hasn’t been eating or sleeping for days.” John propped them up underneath Sherlock’s legs. “I don’t suppose I could borrow your handcuffs, could I? He’s going to hospital when he comes round, and I may need to drag him. Oh, and the murder wasn’t a murder. The brother’s hiding in Manchester. If he’s dead, and his sister’s in prison, the whole inheritance goes to his children, managed by the wife. The pile of papers with the dagger through it has all of the evidence.”

“Thank you.” Lestrade looked down at Sherlock, sprawled out on the floor. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t suppose you could create some sort of ‘eat every day or you’re not allowed any cases’ rule, could you?”

“I wish I could. We need him.”

John sighed. “I know.”

\---

“What happened? Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock tried to sit up, but flopped down on the bed due to dizziness.

“Take it easy.” John pushed Sherlock down on the bed. “You’re in hospital. You fainted from malnutrition. I gave Lestrade the evidence. He said it was a nice change to get the solution without anyone calling him an idiot.”

Sherlock groaned and sat up slowly. “You’re going to spoil him. He’s going to start expecting that from me next. When can I go home?”

“You should be discharged in a day or two. You should be fine with some vitamin supplements, regular food, and some rest.”

“Rest?” Sherlock flopped back theatrically on the bed. “Rest is boring. I need work.”

“You need to limit your use of nicotine patches to the amount it says on the box. And eat every day, and sleep every night for several weeks at least. If you keep this up, you could do yourself permanent damage.”

“Nonsense. Doctors always tell you that. It’s simply a matter of willpower.”

John rubbed his face. “Mycroft’s here for a visit. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

“Mycroft? What’s he doing here?”

Mycroft stepped into the room. “Hospitals do notify next of kin when you’re ill. Mummy called me.”

“Mother?” Sherlock sat bolt-upright. “She’s here?”

Mycroft nodded. “And she’s very worried about you.” He turned to the doorway. “Mummy, Sherlock’s awake now. You can have a word with him.”

\---

“So that’s your mother?” John stared at the departing figure in the neat gray suit.

“Yes.”

“She’s…”

“Terrifying.”

“I was going for nice,” John said. “But also terrifying.”

“There is nothing nice about her. That woman is a steamroller.”

“I don’t know. It was quite nice of her to arrange a cottage in Cornwall for you to recuperate in. And extremely nice for you to invite me along.”

Sherlock shook his head. “She’s always thought I needed a babysitter. You’re being dragged along on this expedition because it’s assumed that you’ll make me eat and sleep to medical instructions, and because she becomes inordinately fixated whenever I make an actual friend.”

“Never had many friends?”

“Two.”

“Two?”

“I've had two friends in my life. And Mycroft frightened Victor away.”

“Oh.” John couldn’t think of anything to say about that. He’d always considered himself a bit antisocial, because he rarely had more than two or three real friends at a time. “Well, the seaside will be nice.”

“It’ll be horrible. Rainy, with a complete lack of murder. I’ll go insane.”

“Could be worse. With you, I doubt anyone will notice.”

\---

The cottage was a surprisingly gloomy little whitewashed place, so close to the cliff that it looked ready to fall off in a stiff breeze.

“Shipwrecks,” Sherlock said, looking down.

“What?”

“Mount’s Bay. This bit’s notorious for shipwrecks. It looks like an alluring bit of shelter on a bad night. Nice mild breeze coming in from the north. So the ships would sail in and a sharp south-west gale would push the onto the breakers. Cunning little death trap, really. That’s why there were so many wreckers in Cornwall.”

John stared at Sherlock. “You don’t remember the Prime Minister’s name, but you remember that?”

“I read a book on the train. I have to do something with my mind while I’m trapped out here.”

“Most people just bring a trashy novel.”

“Can’t stand those,” Sherlock said. “There’s no proper data, and everyone goes blundering about asking the wrong questions. Worse than your blog.”

“Thank you very much. You know I’m feeling incredibly inspired. I may do a blog entry when I get back. How does ‘My flatmate is unbearably rude’ sound for a title?”

“Not any worse than A Study in Pink.”

\---

“Sherlock, there’s only one bedroom. And only one bed.”

“Is there?” Sherlock looked in to the bedroom. “Oh. Mother must have assumed.”

“Assumed? You mean she thinks we’re…together?”

“Don’t be surprised if you ‘happen’ to meet a great many wedding planners in the next several weeks. Don’t worry about the bed. You can have it.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“I’ll manage.”

“No, you’re sleeping in the bed, even if I have to sit on you all night.”

“Then we’re sharing.” Sherlock smiled. “That’s settled. Out for a walk?”

“Not just yet. I was going to prepare supper.”

“Supper? But we just ate six hours ago!”

“Yes,” said John. “Welcome to normal life.”

“I hate it already.”

\---

“Need a hand?” An attractive brunette smiled helpfully at John.

“Thanks, I have it.” John finally managed to work the boot catch, and flipped it open. “Not my car. My friend’s brother lent it to me.”

“Nice friend.” The woman looked the car over admiringly. “New to Penzance?”

“Just visiting. Haven’t seen any pirates.” John smiled, then stopped. “I’ve just made the same joke as every tourist ever, haven’t I?”

“Pretty much.” The woman laughed. “I’m Carla.”

“John.”

“If you’re going to be in Cornwall, give me a call.” Carla handed him a card. “I’ve always got my work mobile with me.”

John looked at the card. “You’re a…wedding planner?”

“Yes. Lately, for some reason, I've mostly been doing civil unions.”

\---

“Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, has invited us over for tea.”

Sherlock set down the newspaper. “I knew that there were people who lived lives of such intolerable tedium that tea with the vicar was the highlight of their day. I foolishly hoped I’d never become one.”

“He’s nice. He’s keen on local history.” He was also the only person John had met in the past three days who wasn’t a wedding planner. “I thought you’d like it. If you don’t want to go, I’ll tell him you’re ill. You can read a book.”

“I’ve read all of my books.”

“What, all of them? Your books had their own suitcase!”

“I was bored.”

“Well, you can have a nap.”

“Spare me from interminable naps.” Sherlock stood up. “I’ll go. It will provide an alternative to memorizing the wallpaper.”

\---

“So,” said Mr. Roundhay, “I’ve always been very supportive of same-sex unions. I know it’s a controversial position in the church, but I believe God supports all marriages built on the spirit of love.”

Sherlock gave John a pointed look.

“Interesting,” said John. “My sister’s…well divorcing her wife, actually. It’s a bit of a difficult time for the family. I don’t know what she did for clergy. I was overseas at the time.”

“John and his sister don’t get on, although relations have improved recently. Much like Mr. Tregennis and his siblings, I can assume, although not quite such a sudden reconciliation.”

John let his head flop forward into his hands. “Sherlock, don’t do this.”

For the first time in the meal, Mr. Tregennis spoke. "How did you know that?”

“Your brother and two sisters are staying at Tredannick Wartha. I learned this while out for a walk earlier. One big house for the lot of them, they must all be quite close. You’re taking lodgings with the vicar, so you’re not. But you’re voluntarily seeking out lodging in the same town, so things must be improving. When I passed your room in the corridor, it wasn’t entirely unpacked, which suggests you’ve moved in quite recently. Within the past month. The label on the box said Bristol, so you haven’t just moved out of the family home. Therefore you came back seeking reconciliation.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m very sorry. He’s…horribly rude.”

“No.” Mr. Tregennis looked up, the light flashing off his spectacles. “He’s right. My family and I had some stupid conflict over investments. Tin mines. I left town, but eventually I realized I was being foolish. Family is so important, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely. Sherlock,” John said, “would you like to talk about your family? I’m sure everyone here would love to hear your stories.”

“I’ll get you for this, John.”

\---

“John, wake up!” Sherlock stood over the bed with an enormous smile on his face. “It’s a glorious morning! We can’t waste a moment of this wonderful day!”

John sat up groggily. “What’s got into you?”

“There’s finally been a really interesting murder!”


	2. Chapter 2

It was, John knew, bad behavior to glare viciously at a poor, innocent vicar for things that weren’t his fault.

He tried to make himself stop.

“I’m afraid that Sherlock won’t be able to help with this case. He’s here having a rest for his health.”

“I’ve had a rest, John, and, I’m fully recovered.”

“No you’re not!”

“Yes I am. You’re amazingly talented that way.” Sherlock turned. “Now, Mr. Tregennis, as you were the one who made the discovery, why don’t you tell us what you saw?”

Mr. Roundhay looked up. “How did you…”

“Don’t bother asking,” John said. “He’ll only tell you.”

“Ignore him,” said Sherlock, looking intolerably smug. “He’s horribly rude.”

Mr. Roundhay looked at Mr. Tregennis. “Mortimer?”

Mr. Tregennis looked down at his hands.

“Perhaps I should start,” said Mr. Roundhay. “Last night, Mortimer went over to see his family for a friendly card game. He left with the game still in progress, and returned shortly after ten. When he went out this morning to check up on them, he was passed by an ambulance. The housekeeper had called in on them this morning, and found…well, I don’t know how any power on Earth could have done what happened that night. Owen and George were completely out of their heads. They’d both suffered some sort of psychotic episode. Brenda was…  
“Dead,” said Mr. Tregennis. He very carefully removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “My sister is dead.”

\---

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in reminding you that you’re supposed to be resting, is there?”

“None whatsoever.” Sherlock pulled his coat on. “A man’s lost his family, and a mysterious killer is on the loose, who may pose a threat to the safety of every man, woman, and child in this town.”

“Don’t pretend you care about any of that stuff.”

“It doesn’t matter if I care or not. You’re going to let me work this case, because you care.”

John bit his lip. Sherlock had him there. “Fine.” John shook his head. “Fine. But if you stop eating and sleeping again, I’ll call your mother.”

Sherlock froze.

“She gave me her number at the hospital. Told me to call if you got too unmanageable. She said if need be, she’d have a word with you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes. “Try me.”

Sherlock groaned. “Very well, we’ll investigate the cottage, and then…eat a sandwich. Will that satisfy you?”

“It’s a start.”

\---

“Oh, perfect.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The local police. If it hasn’t been hopelessly bungled yet, I’m sure they’ll see to it.”

“Come on, they might not be that bad.”

“That would be a miracle. A police force that didn’t consist of clumsy idio…” Sherlock stumbled over a watering can, flooding the path.

John put out an arm to catch him. “You were talking about clumsy idiots?”

“That could have happened to anyone.”

“Yes.” John grinned. “But it happened to the great Sherlock Holmes.” He picked up his feet and shook them. “I think you’ve soaked my socks.”

“There are more important things than dry socks. You, sergeant!” Sherlock waved his hand. “Don’t touch anything! Tell me you didn’t move the body.”

The police officer stared. “Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes. The best bit of luck you’ve had all day.” He pulled out his mobile. “Call Lestrade of Scotland Yard if you want an explanation. And in the meantime, don’t touch anything.”

\---

“Hold still!” Sherlock barged into the room. “What’s been moved? Who’s been in here? I need to know everything that happened in this room.”

“The housekeeper came in first,” volunteered a young constable. “She came in and fainted. Knocked over the chair. She said she opened a window after she came too.”

“Fainted?”

“Shock, you know. She found the body and…” He shook his head. “The brothers. They were huddled up together in the corner of the room. Singing, apparently. The sister’s body hasn’t been moved.”

“Good. At least you got something right. John,” Sherlock said, “examine the body.”

“DCI Thompson said he doesn’t want some amateur mucking about with the evidence. We have a medical examiner on the way,” said the constable.

“Yes, but I want someone competent. John.”

John looked over the body. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair cut in a bob. Her face was...John looked away.

“What do you see?” Sherlock was bent over the fireplace.

“She’s been dead for several hours. No apparent injury. Possibly a heart attack?”

“What about her face?”

“Yes.” John shuddered. “Her face.” He’d never seen an expression quite like that, and he hoped he never would again.

“She died in terror.” Sherlock turned. “They had candles on the table. Why?”

John looked at the candlesticks stuck in waxy puddles between the cards. “I don’t know.” He glanced up at the light bulb. “Maybe the power was out?”

Sherlock peered out the window. “How big would you say that flowerbed was? Three feet?”

“Is he always like that?” the constable asked.

“Always,” John said.

Sherlock stepped out the door. “I think it’s time we have a word with Mortimer Tregennis.”

\---

“Mr. Tregennis, are you ready to talk?”

Mortimer Tregennis looked up. “I think I can, yes. What do you need to know?”

“Tell me everything that happened last night, particularly anything unusual or memorable.”

Mortimer glanced down and to the left. “It wasn’t…it seemed like a normal night. I went over for dinner. Afterward, George suggested we play cards. It was a little before nine when we started. The game got pretty lively, and was still going at a quarter past ten. I was tired, so I excused myself and went back to my room. George, Owen, and Brenda were all happy and healthy when I stepped out the door. When I got back in the morning…” He shook his head. “Poor Brenda. If I’d only known…. At least we had the chance to make up before she died.”

“True,” said Sherlock. “Lucky timing.”

John shot Sherlock a sharp look. “He means it’s…fortunate that you can have this comfort in your time of grief.”

“Yes, that.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “There was a fire last night.”

“Yes,” said Mortimer. “It was a bit chilly, so I started one.”

“Unusual for this time of year. Lucky you had firewood.”

“Yes. We've had a few surprise cold snaps before, so we got in the habit of being prepared.”

“Supplied with candles as well?”

“Is this relevant?”

Sherlock shrugged. “At this point, it’s difficult to say what might be relevant.”

“The electricity tends to go out. It’s an old house. Owen always kept candles around in case of emergency. He said it was much nicer than trying to get by with torches.”

“And you saw nothing unusual last night?”

“There was one thing,” Mortimer said. “George was opposite me, facing the window. I saw him looking at something over the shoulder. I turned, and…it was difficult to say what I saw. Something light-colored moving off in the distance. It was difficult to make out through the blinds. Probably just a stray dog. I asked George, and he said he wasn’t sure what it was.”

“You didn’t investigate?”

“No.” Mortimer shook his head. “Like I said, it was probably just a stray dog.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tregennis. I think we’ve discovered all that we can for the moment.” Sherlock glanced behind him. “And I suspect that’s DCI Thompson, looking extremely displeased, which means we should probably find urgent business elsewhere. John?”

John sighed and got ready to run.

\---

After about four hours of the police failing to come to the cottage and arrest them for tampering with a crime scene, John decided it was probably safe to get groceries.

Six wedding planners later, he came home to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, rubbing his arm.

"Can please you make it clear to your mother that we're not getting married?" John looked at Sherlock. "Did you steal an extra patch?"

“You should have hidden them better.” Sherlock didn’t move.

“You know, there is such a thing as recommended doses.”

“That’s for amateurs.” Sherlock let his arm drop. “Priorities, John. Do you want me to sleep, eat, or restrict my nicotine intake?”

“All of the above, actually.”

“I’ll grant you two, and that’s only because you’ve threatened me with my mother.” Sherlock groaned. “Why is there so little information?” He sat up. “I need air. Hurry up and put away the food. We’re going for a walk.”

“You could help, you know!” John hauled the bags to the kitchen.

“I could, true.” Sherlock sat on the sofa, looking smug.

\---

“Now let’s look at what we’ve found so far,” Sherlock said, pacing the cliff’s edge. “Something happened to three people that sent two of them psychotic, and killed the other one. Assuming Mortimer Tregennis is telling the truth, it happened shortly after he left the room. The cards were still on the table, and they hadn’t left the table. I would be very surprised if it happened after eleven o’clock at night. Obviously, the thing to do was check Mortimer Tregennis’s movements. Hence the trick with the watering can; soaking the path so it would take footprints. No doubt you spotted that. It was a bit transparent.”

John nodded and tried to look knowing.

“Mr. Tregennis’s footprints led towards the vicar’s place. Going by her footprints, the housekeeper didn’t go near the place until morning. That leaves the three victims, and no clue as to the person responsible for what happened.”

“Except for the movement outside of the window,” John said.

“True. Not tremendously helpful. For someone to be visible from inside the room in the dark, in the rain, with the blinds drawn, they would have to be right outside the window. He would have had to be standing in the flowerbed, and it is nearly impossible to stand in a damp flowerbed without leaving a trace, but there was nothing. So we’re left with an unknown person responsible for the attack, using unknown means, and leaving no trace. You see the difficulty?”

John sighed. “It looks impossible.”

“That’s why you should have let me have three patches.”

\---

When they got back, there was a man waiting outside the cottage. He was tall, taller than Sherlock, with blonde hair and a matching beard. He immediately stepped and grasped Sherlock’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “Mr. Holmes, I presume.”

Sherlock looked as if he’d just been handed a dead herring. “Who are you?”

“Leon Sterndale. A…friend of the Tregennis family. Mr. Roundhay says you’re working on the case?”

“Dr. Leon Sterndale?” Sherlock’s expression changed. “The one who wrote the definitive paper on Tapanuli fever? I didn’t know I had such intelligent company in this town.”

Sterndale ignored the compliment. “I’d just left town, actually. I was at Heathrow waiting to board my flight when I got Mr. Roundhay’s message. I ran straight out. My bags are probably headed to Kinshasa right now.”

“They don’t do that anymore,” John said. “Terrorism. Security’s probably searching your bags for bombs.”

“Are they?” Sterndale shrugged.

“So you ran out on an international flight, casting professional considerations to the wind, and left all of your possessions behind.” Sherlock gave Sterndale a careful look. “That is friendship.”

“They’re family, actually. My mother’s cousins. I always tried to keep an eye on them.” Sterndale looked down and shook his head. “I never imagined…well, how could anyone imagine something like this? Do you have any idea what happened?”

“Difficult to say,” Sherlock said. “I don’t have anything definite as of yet.”

“But you have suspicions?”

“Nothing I’m prepared to share.”

“Well, then I won’t waste your time any further.” Dr. Sterndale turned and walked away.

“Tell me something, John.” Sherlock watched Dr. Sterndale walk away. “Have you ever met your mother’s cousins?”

“I’ve barely met my own cousins!”

“Exactly. I know I wouldn’t burden myself with extraneous relations if I had the choice. Mycroft’s bad enough.”

“I see your point, but some people actually do get on with their families.”

“I’ve heard that claimed, yes.” Sherlock kept staring at Dr. Sterndale disappeared over the horizon. “Still, abandoning all of your luggage to the tender mercy of airport security is a bit above and beyond. Right, that should be long enough.” He started walking.

“Long enough for what?”

“To follow him without being noticed, of course!” Sherlock grinned. “I think Dr. Sterndale is going to prove simply fascinating."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”

Sherlock returned that evening, trudging slowly, his eyes fixed on his phone.

“DCI Thompson came by,” John said. “We’ve been warned off the case. Apparently, if he catches us interfering with a crime scene again, we’ll be arrested. So we’re off the case.”

“Of course we aren’t. We just need to avoid being caught by DCI Thompson, that’s all.”

“Did you find anything?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Dr. Sterndale’s story checks out. He was scheduled to fly to Kinshasa, and he returned without any luggage. He hasn’t even contacted anyone about his bags. What do you make of that?”

“He’s upset? People don’t necessarily think about luggage when someone they’re close to dies.”

“Yes, and he seems to have been very close to Brenda Tregennis. He hasn’t been to visit Owen or George in hospital at all. So much for the bonds of family. He’s clearly not here to look after his poor disturbed relations. That’s a lead. I just have to trace it down.”

“Eat first,” John said. “It’s suppertime. Eating will help you think.”

“Liar,” Sherlock said. But he tucked the phone in his pocket, and sat down at the table.

\---

“Cottage pie? Really?” Sherlock stared down at the plate with contempt.

“I was being swarmed by wedding planners! I grabbed the first thing that looked like supper and got out of there!”

“You are aware that I’m not eight years old, right?”

“Then why are you sculpting your potatoes into a little man?”

“It’s a forensic study. The tomato sauce isn’t a half-bad substitute for blood.”

\---

The next morning, John was shaving when he was interrupted by a ferocious pounding on the door.

“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!”

“Ow!” John dabbed some tissue at the shaving cut. “Sherlock! The vicar wants you!”

\---

“Another murder?” John asked, buttoning up the cuffs on his shirt.

Mr. Roundhay was shaking. “I don’t even know if you’d call it murder. Murder means something human. I don’t know if anything human could have done that to poor Mortimer. it's the same thing that happened to Brenda!”

Sherlock stood. “Come on, John. We have to get there immediately, before the police blunder in and make a mess of things. No time for breakfast!”

“I didn’t say anything about breakfast!”

“You were thinking it.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and dashed out the door.

\---

The room was sickeningly stuffy. Sherlock had opened the window, which was good, as John didn’t think he could have borne it otherwise. As it was, he felt unpleasantly dizzy and light-headed. An old-fashioned oil lamp stood flaring and sputtering on the center table. Mortimer Tregennis sat in a chair next to it, his face turned towards the window, twisted into an expression of horror. His hands had been clenched so tightly on the armrests that he’d actually broken one of his fingers.

“Bed’s been slept in,” Sherlock said. “He woke up this morning, got dressed in a hurry, sat down, looked out the window, and died.” He spun around, then turned to the open window and jumped out onto the lawn. He dropped down flat, his face low to the grass, then stood up and vaulted back through the window inside.

“Is that normal?” Mr. Roundhay asked. "He isn't...unwell or anything, is he?"

John shrugged. “Just ignore him. He’ll tell you when he’s found something.”

Sherlock bent over the oil lamp and peered intently at it. He carefully scraped off a bit of ash, which he tucked into an envelope and put in his pocket. Then he straightened up. “The police should be here any second. I suggest we leave and let them get on with their investigations.”

Mr. Roundhay looked surprised. “What?”

“Oh, can’t have some amateur mucking about with the evidence.” Sherlock smiled. “DCI Thompson has politely requested that we leave this case to his officers. If they’re completely lost, point them towards the window and the lamp. That should be enough evidence for even them to sort out the whole thing. If they’re prepared to admit they’re in over their heads, they’re free to call in on me at the cottage.”

“Mr. Holmes, what happened? Was it…”

“It wasn’t the devil, Mr. Roundhay,” Sherlock said. “No, this case has a very human feel.”

\---

“Idiots!” Sherlock stared out the window. “It’s been two days!”

“'Which idiots did you have in mind? The police?” John asked.

“Of course, the police! What else is there to think about in this town?”

“I thought you were getting to like it here. The peace and quiet, the local history, the long walks…that was you investigating the case, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa. “There’s hardly anything left to investigate. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Sherlock pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out to John. It was full of brown powder.

John drew back. “What is that?

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock, “but I have a theory.” He looked at John. “Oh, relax, it’s not drugs. Well, not conventional drugs. I think it’s the murder weapon. I found it on the lamp in the room where Mr. Tregennis died.”

“The murder weapon?” John asked. “Shouldn’t you give that to the police?”

“I left them half. Just in case any of them turn out to have brains.” Sherlock stared down at the powder. “The ash around it suggests that the bulk of it had been burned. Remember how extraordinarily stuffy the room was?”

“Yes, why?”

“All of the windows and doors were shut. The room where Brenda Tregennis was killed had an open window, but the housekeeper opened that the next morning after she discovered the body. Both rooms were shut in, and had a convenient source of fire. This suggests the powder was burned, and the smoke released caused the psychotic episodes and deaths we saw.”

“So, are we going to give that to police forensics, then?”

“In Cornwall?” Sherlock shook his head. “Much too slow. It would be ages before we learned anything. No,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile, “we’re going to test it.”

\---

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock stacked the logs. “And I doubt I will. This powder is a much smaller quantity than what Mr. Tregennis was exposed to. Less than one-fourth of the amount. And I’m opening a window.”

“Great,” said John. “You’re opening a window. Well I guess that makes everything perfectly safe.”

“I’m not completely reckless.”

“Yes you are! People have died from inhaling this stuff!”

“Brenda Tregennis had a congenital heart defect. I suspect Mortimer Tregennis suffered the same problem. George and Owen Tregennis both survived. I don’t think it would kill anyone with a healthy heart.”

“Great, so we just end up psychotic then? Much better. It’s been my lifelong dream to be sectioned.”

Sherlock struck a match. “If you don’t like it, John, you don’t have to participate.”

“And leave you alone with a chemical that sends people psychotic? Don’t be stupid.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good man. I thought I knew my Watson. Now you sit in the chair behind the window, and I’ll sit over in this other chair, the same distance away. That way we can watch each other for symptoms. I’ll leave the door slightly open in case we need to make a quick exit.”

John frowned. “I’m putting 999 on speed-dial.”

\---

Sherlock tossed the packet on the fire and smiled. “Now we wait, and see what happens next.”

John drew a slow breath. The smell of that stuff had quickly filled the room. It was thick and musky, and left him feeling slightly queasy. I wonder what it will feel like to go mad, he thought.

Something dark began to fill the room. At first, John thought it was the smoke, but it moved like a live thing, wrapping itself around him. In the smoke, he could hear sounds: screams, gunshots, and voices shouting in a language he couldn’t understand. And underneath all of that, almost too faint to hear, an animal moan. It was the sound he’d always managed the monster in the closet making when he was a child, and here it was, getting louder, getting closer, and in the smoky cloud, he thought he saw the gleam of claws.

John tried to scream, but it felt like his tongue had dried out, or possibly been taken, snatched away by the thing in the dark. He heard a hoarse croaking sound, and realized it was coming from him. He wasn't sure if it was the sort of sound that you needed a tongue to make.

His head jerked, and somehow, through the cloud, he managed to see Sherlock, clinging to the chair, his face as pale as death. Something snapped, and John jumped up. He grabbed Sherlock, pulling him towards the door and away from the monster…no, the darkness…no, the smoke, John realized, as he hit fresh air and his head started to clear. The smoke was poison. He did still have a tongue, and the smoke was the only real danger. But they’d escaped. They were free.

He let himself fall sprawling on the grass, Sherlock hitting the ground beside him, and they both drew deep breaths of fresh, clean air. They lay there in the grass, not speaking, only breathing, until the first traces of sunlight rose over the horizon, and John felt very nearly sane.

\---

John looked over at Sherlock. “You are the biggest idiot in the world.”

Sherlock looked back, still shaking. “You may have a point. I didn’t think it would be that strong. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”  
“I’m glad I was there,” John said. “I wouldn’t want to leave you alone with that stuff.”

Sherlock sat up. “I don’t think we’ll be able to persuade anyone the powder causes insanity. The fact that we did the test proves we were both out of our minds to begin with.”

John laughed.

“We should probably wait out here while the room clears out,” Sherlock said. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s safe to say the powder answers a lot of questions?”

“Yes.” John drew slow, steady breaths, and fought the urge to run. “We’ve worked out how the murder was committed. Now the trick is to find out who.”

“I believe the answer is on its way.” Sherlock glanced down the path.

Silhouetted by the rising sun, a tall figure strode towards the cottage.


	4. Chapter 4

Dr. Sterndale walked towards the cottage. “You sent for me?”

Sherlock nodded. “Don’t mind if I don’t invite you in. I believe you’d find the cottage…unpleasantly stuffy at the moment. I believe I’ve found the solution to the Tregennis murders, but I need for you to clarify one last point for me before I decide whether to take this solution to the police or not.”

“I see.” Dr. Sterndale gave Sherlock an oddly cautious look. “What do you need to know?”

“Why exactly did you kill Mortimer Tregennis?”

For an instance, Dr. Sterndale’s face showed pure rage, then he went coldly calm. “If this is a joke, Mr. Holmes, I don’t think it’s a very funny one.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“A bluff? You accuse everyone involved in the case, hoping to startle a confession out of the murderer?”

“I don’t bluff," Sherlock declared.

John stifled a derisive snort.

Sherlock ignored him. "Mortimer Tregennis killed his sister and poisoned his brothers, and you subsequently killed him. I have my suspicions as to the motive, but not enough information to go on. I would very much like to hear the complete story.”

Dr. Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “If you think I’m a murderer, why haven’t you gone to the police?”

“As I said, I have my suspicions as to the motive.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The Sherlock began pacing. “If you won’t explain, I will. Once I understood the mechanism of the poison, Mortimer Tregennis was the obvious killer. He’d quarreled with his brothers and sisters, and subsequently returned, claiming to have reconciled. Shortly after that, they were all poisoned. Obviously, he feigned reconciliation, waited for a convenient opportunity, and threw the poison in the fire just as he was leaving. No one else came near the cottage until the housekeeper arrived the next morning, and there was no mysterious white thing wandering around in the dark. That still leaves two questions – where did he get the poison, and who killed him? Conceivably, he could have committed suicide out of remorse, but someone who made such a cold and calculating effort to kill his entire family? Unlikely. That’s where you came in. Or rather came back.”

“I came back…”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted. “You came back and gave a pathetically inadequate explanation. Let’s not repeat it. After returning, you came to me, asking who I suspected. When I refused to answer you, you went down to the vicarage, spent several hours staring at it, then returned to your own cottage.”

“How could you know that?” Dr. Sterndale shook his head in surprise.

“I followed you. After returning, you stayed until early the next morning, then walked back to the vicarage, stopping outside your front gate to fill your pockets with reddish gravel from the heap you found there. You were wearing the same shoes you currently have on. At the vicarage, you slipped through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out directly at the bedroom window of Mortimer Tregennis. You threw two or three handfuls of gravel at his window before he got up and let you in via the window. You had a short conversation, during which you paced the room and he sat in the very same chair in which he ultimately died. Then you exited by the window, and spent several minutes on the lawn smoking and watching Mortimer Tregennis die, departing shortly before the vicar discovered the body. Now will you tell me why you did this? If you lie, I will go directly to the police.”

Dr. Sterndale pulled out his mobile phone and pressed a few keys. “You want to know why?” He handed the phone to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the phone, looked at the screen, and said, “Ah.”

John looked over. “It’s a photo of Brenda Tregennis?”

“Several, actually. Taken by a man in love.”

“How can you tell?”

Sherlock didn’t deign to answer.

Dr. Sterndale took the phone back. “We should have been married years ago. But I made a foolish mistake in my younger years, and a divorce can take a remarkably long time when one of the parties is delaying out of spite. Brenda was patient. She waited, and when I was finally free…” He stopped and pressed his hand to his eyes, then went on in a strained voice. “We were close. Very close. She was going to meet me in Africa after I got settled. I offered to find safer and steadier work, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was so brave.” He swallowed hard. “The vicar knew. That’s why he contacted me the moment he heard. Now you understand.”

“The poison?” Sherlock asked.

Dr. Sterndale pulled out a paper packet. He looked at John. “You’re a doctor? You might find this interesting. The tribe where I learned about it called it Devil’s Foot Root. It’s an ordeal poison. It’s quite safe to touch, but be very careful about inhaling anywhere near the stuff.”  
John opened the packet. It contained reddish-brown powder.

Dr. Sterndale continued. “I brought it back as a curiosity. It was a poor prospect for pharmaceutical use, but it’s always helpful to document unknown pharmaceutical compounds. Mortimer…took an interest. Brenda was so pleased that he’d finally reconciled, and I felt obliged to be kind. I don’t know how he managed to take it. I didn’t notice that some of it was missing until after I received the vicar’s message. From there, it wasn’t difficult to put the whole story together.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” John asked.

“I didn’t think I’d be believed. It’s a poison no one else on this continent had heard of, and if I accused Mortimer while producing a packet of the substance, what do you think would have happened?” Dr. Sterndale sighed. “I don’t know, perhaps I’ve been away too long. I spend most of my time in parts of the world where the police are unavailable or…not trustworthy. After what he’d done to Brenda, I wasn’t going to risk him fooling the police and getting away. So I went to his room, woke him up, and we had…words. I had a gun with me, and he knew I’d shoot him where he sat if he tried to escape. I climbed back out, closed the window, and watched. I suppose I should say I regretted it as I watched him die, but after what he did to Brenda, I savored every second of it. Now you know it all, and you can send me to prison if you like. It doesn’t matter what happens to me anymore.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “What were you going to do? You say you don’t care what happens to you, but you didn’t turn yourself in. What was your plan?”

Dr. Sterndale looked down. “There’s a clinic I know, small and desperately understaffed. It’s been in the middle of a war zone for years, and more than a few doctors have been shot for treating patients considered to be on the wrong side. I wasn’t going to take Brenda there, but after she...it seemed like a better penance than a prison cell in England.”

“Go, then,” Sherlock said.

Dr. Sterndale looked up. “What?”

“The local police have made it quite clear they don’t want my help on this case, so I intend to obliged them thoroughly. Go. I won’t stop you.”

Dr. Sterndale straightened up and looked Sherlock in the eye. “Thank you.” He turned and walked away.

“You’re willing to let him go, I trust?” Sherlock looked over at John. “It would rather make a mess of things if you went off to the police after all of this.”

“No.” John shook his head. “No. Considering…I’m surprised you’re not turning him in, though. I thought you’d want the credit.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Call it a moment of sympathy.”

“Sympathy?”

“If the person I’d fallen in love with was murdered, I might react the same way.” He sniffed the air. “Do you think it’s safe to go back inside? I had an interesting book on the Cornish language, and I was conducting some comparative linguistic research as a hobby.”

“A hobby?” John blinked. “You…have a hobby? You?”

“Don’t tell Mother,” Sherlock said. “She will be insufferably smug.”


End file.
